


Husband, Guardian, Muse

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Character Death, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, ghost story with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: After the untimely death of his husband and muse, Crowley tries to find the simplest, most foolproof way to join him. But in the days that follow, he discovers that sometimes what looks like an ending can turn out to be a beginning, and that no one is ever really gone if we find a way to remember them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 92
Collections: Celestial Harmonies Issue 1





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley hated working over his vacations.

Wasn’t the point of being a semi-famous artist that he got to make his own hours, work alone, and spend as much time at home with his husband as he wanted?

Not this time, apparently. Not since Alciston & Selmeston Village Hall decided to do a complete renovation, including replacing their hospitality-grade art with original work from local artists, he had been stuck in meetings and consultations all week while his husband occupied himself at their cottage.

Aziraphale said he didn’t mind since he was doing renovations of his own – a new work space for Crowley, an extension to his library, expanding the wine cellar. Being alone gave Aziraphale the opportunity to putter over fabric samples and color swatches in peace without his husband intervening every five minutes with his supposed “expert eye for nuance”.

But Crowley had enough of forgoing lunches with his husband (as well as afternoon delights) in favor of another discussion over whether or not a Monet-inspired acrylic of waterlilies would be appropriate for the treasurer’s office. He launched his escape when an argument over abstract sculptures for public spaces broke out. He grabbed a blank canvas under the guise of starting a new piece and slipped away in his Bentley. He hit the interstate and sped off like a bat out of hell, making it to their cottage in record time.

Crowley loved how secluded it was in their small patch of heaven. Tucked far and away from any other living souls, no one complained about their activities – amorous or otherwise - be it at three in the afternoon or three in the morning.

Crowley shed his jacket, his keys, and his phone at the front door, then he wandered the rooms, the canvas from earlier tucked beneath his arm, making as much noise as possible to alert his husband of his arrival.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called, walking through the kitchen in search of his muse. “Aziraphale! Where are you, angel? I miss your ass!”

“I thought you had to work this afternoon.”

Crowley smiled. “I _am_ working. I’m doing a portrait of a gorgeous man, as soon as I find him.”

“ _No_ …” Aziraphale chuckled. “You’re supposed to be doing a landscape for the city planner’s office.”

“No,” Crowley insisted, inspecting another empty room. “I’m painting _you_. Naked if I have my way.”

“You just want to snog,” Aziraphale teased.

“Nothin’ wrong with that. Now where are you? This cottage i’n’t that big.”

“Out here, installing the track lighting.”

Crowley turned the corner to the patio – a space they’d recently added to give Crowley a protected outdoor area to work. There was Aziraphale – his intrepid Aziraphale – braving their rickety, eighty-year-old ladder to install a row of lights. The chrome runner and bonnets gleamed in the midday sun, right in Aziraphale’s eyes, so he was installing them blind, his eyes shut against the reflected light, feeling around for the holes to put the screws in. Crowley winced when the ladder shivered beneath Aziraphale’s weight, but Aziraphale seemed oblivious, balancing precariously on his toes to screw the fixture to the wall.

Crowley put the canvas down and held the ladder secure beneath his husband. “I really wish you’d let _me_ do that. Or wait till we buy a new ladder.”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley with playful blue eyes. “This ladder is fine. Besides, I don’t have much more to do. It’ll only take a ---” Aziraphale leaned sideways. The ladder lurched. Luckily, Crowley reacted in time to keep Aziraphale from toppling head first into the retaining wall.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Crowley said, pulling on Aziraphale’s pant leg. “Get down now.”

“But I only have one screw left!”

_That’s an understatement_ , Crowley thought bitterly in reference to the dozen or so times he’d asked Aziraphale to wait on this project. “I don’t care. Get your ass down off that ladder.”

“Geez,” Aziraphale huffed, carefully navigating the rungs. “You certainly have a fondness for my rear.”

“It happens to be a glorious rear.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s behind and squeezed for emphasis. “I don’t want anything happening to it.” He drew Aziraphale close, relishing the way their bodies fit together, as if some higher power had carved them both from the same slab of stone.

Like they’d been made specifically for each other.

Aziraphale tilted his head, pouting in mock offense. “So, you only care about my rear?”

“Among other things.” Crowley captured Aziraphale’s lips, not waiting for an invitation, trying his best to kiss the pout from Aziraphale’s face.

If Aziraphale’s whimpers were any indication, Crowley was winning.

But Crowley’s cellphone, ringing where he’d left it, called a foul on his game. He had no intention of stopping, but Aziraphale annoyingly felt that job and responsibility came before snogging.

“You should get that,” he struggled to say, voice muffled by Crowley’s lips pressing insistently against his.

“Nope.”

“But it’s probably village hall, wondering where their artist is.”

Crowley frowned as his husband squirmed out of his arms while laughing at what Aziraphale called Crowley’s “sour mug”. Crowley narrowed his eyes at his husband.

“I’m going to go answer that, but just to tell them to get lost, and then I’m getting you naked.”

Crowley peppered Aziraphale’s cheeks with kisses to a symphony of his giggles. Then, with a heavy-handed swat to his backside, he reluctantly released his husband and ran inside to answer the phone.

Despite his frustration at having to put his escapades with his husband on hold, Crowley couldn’t help smiling. He loved his life. He loved his marriage. He especially loved the time they spent at their cottage in the South Downs. He’d always be a city dweller, but this place was paradise. He loved bringing his husband here and having him all to himself.

Crowley and Aziraphale had been blessed with a wonderful five-year-long honeymoon, and he didn’t see that ending anytime soon.

“Coming, coming,” he yelled at his insufferable phone, but he wasn’t exactly rushing to get it. By the time he reached it, it stopped ringing.

“Oh, no,” he joked. “I didn’t get here in time. Whatever shall I do?”

It didn’t matter to him anyway since no power on heaven or earth could have convinced him to leave his husband right as he was preparing to ravish him.

And to make sure they weren’t interrupted again, he turned his ringer off.

“Well, now that that’s settled …”

A sharp noise pricked at Crowley’s ears. Nothing too alarming. In fact, it could have been a bird chirping. But it filled him from head to toe with dread.

He didn’t know how he could possibly feel the ladder tilt from inside the cottage, but he felt the sway of it as if he was standing on it instead of Aziraphale. After a swoop of sudden and inexplicable nausea hit him, everything happened absurdly fast. He heard Aziraphale yelp, a loud metallic clatter, then a horrifying crack, like pottery hitting pavement.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called, and then he waited. When his husband didn’t answer, he started to panic. “Aziraphale!” He ran for the patio, having the sense of mind to start dialing 9-9-9, knowing in his heart that his husband would need an ambulance. “Aziraphale! Are you alri---?”

Crowley got his answer the second he burst through the patio door.

No, Aziraphale wasn’t alright.

Aziraphale definitely wasn’t alright.

***

It rained the day they buried Aziraphale.

This weather was such a marked change from the weeks of sunny skies and no clouds. Aziraphale had mentioned how they needed a good, all-day rainstorm to trap them indoors where they could snuggle together on the sofa with mugs of cocoa and listen to the drops fall. Aziraphale was a quintessential pluviophile. He found peace in the rain.

Crowley hated the rain. He hated getting wet. He hated when his soaked clothes stuck to his skin and cold water ran into his socks. He hated sloshing inside his shoes, and the way they never completely dried. But as much as he hated the rain, he loved Aziraphale, and the rain made Aziraphale happy.

So Crowley became a pluviophile for Aziraphale.

Crowley stood by Aziraphale’s casket beside his open grave and waited in the rain. He waited while the mourners paid their respects. He waited while everyone hugged and cried. He waited until the final mourner wandered somberly away. He waited until they lowered Aziraphale into the ground, and even after there was nothing left to witness, he waited until nightfall, when the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and the stars came out.

Crowley had painted stars hundreds of times. They were one of his favorite subjects to paint.

Now, he didn’t want to look at them.

Tracy, one of Aziraphale’s dearest friends, and her husband Sergeant Shadwell, returned to the cemetery a little before midnight in search of their missing friend, convince him to go home, but Crowley refused to leave. So they waited with him, not pressing the issue even though Crowley was sopping wet and stifling sniffles he knew would bloom into a full-blown cold later on.

At some point, Crowley finally came to the conclusion that Aziraphale wasn’t going to magically return, so he took Tracy’s hand and let himself be led away from his husband’s final resting place. Crowley’s forehead burned with fever by the time the couple got him back to the cottage, but Crowley turned down Tracy’s offer to stay. As much as Tracy objected, in the end, she didn’t have the strength to battle her own grief _and_ Crowley’s, and they left the man alone.

Crowley walked through the unlit cottage, straight out back to the patio, shoving aside a morbid sense of déjà vu. He dropped heavily into a wicker chaise and looked up at the clear night sky, but his vision was obscured by something shiny hanging a few feet above his head.

The light fixture.

That stupid track lighting.

Crowley stared at it in shock as it dangled on its two screws.

The fixture was there, brand new out-of-the-box, installed except for one damn screw, but because of it, Aziraphale was dead.

Crowley snapped.

He spotted an abandoned hoe over by the retaining wall, a few feet from where Aziraphale had fallen. He grabbed it and, with a renewed vigor, attacked the lights.

“Goddamned lights!” he screamed. “What the fuck did we need these for, Aziraphale? Why did you have to put them up when I asked you to wait!? Why didn’t you wait, Aziraphale!? Why couldn’t you just sit on your ass and fucking wait!?”

The sound of the hoe hitting the lights and the brick behind it echoed. The force of the blows caused the hoe to vibrate painfully in Crowley’s hands, but he only tightened his grip and struck harder.

“Fuck you, Aziraphale! Why did you have to put up these stupid lights!?” Crowley screamed, shattering the bulbs and sending a spray of glass falling over his hair and clothes. “I told you to wait! I told you I’d do it! I don’t need the lights, Aziraphale! I need _you_ , Aziraphale!”

He pounded the bonnets flat, chipped away a good portion of the brick wall, but it didn’t make him feel better. He didn’t feel avenged. He could pick those lights apart piece by piece, chop them up until they became dust, but that wouldn’t bring his husband back. And why was he taking out his anger on the lights? He should turn that hoe on himself. Why the fuck hadn’t he held the ladder till Aziraphale finished? He knew how stubborn his husband was, how determined he’d be to finish something he’d started. Why didn’t he take Aziraphale’s place and screw in the lights himself, get it over and done with once and for all? Those lights didn’t kill his husband, nor the ladder. And it wasn’t Aziraphale.

It was _Crowley_.

He was the only one to blame.

Panting hard and with blistered palms, he dropped the hoe on the ground at his feet.

He’s the one. _He_ did this. He killed his husband.

He destroyed his muse.

He stumbled into the cottage and rifled through the cabinets, searching for a fresh bottle of whiskey. He couldn’t stand being sober any longer. His hand came in contact with a bottle that felt mostly full. He grabbed it and pulled it down. Except this bottle wasn’t his spare bottle of Jack.

It was a lone bottle of Hennessy … and it had belonged to Aziraphale.

Crowley’s first instinct was to toss the bottle up against the wall and smash it. He looked around for an open space to hurl it when he caught sight of his paintings - a new crop he had started working on for a show in the fall, all of them featuring his muse.

_Aziraphale_.

Crowley hadn’t set them up in here. _Aziraphale_ had. He was so proud of them, he’d displayed them. That way he could look at them while Crowley toiled down at the village hall, wasting his talents painting hillsides and sunsets.

But Crowley couldn’t look at them. They represented everything he’d had and lost in an instant. Being in their presence made him realize that he couldn’t go on this way. He couldn’t keep being the artist he was when the only subject he enjoyed painting was gone.

He didn’t want to keep existing when the only man he’d ever loved was dead.

He took a swig of the Hennessy to steady his nerves. With his body burning hot and fire in his veins, he grabbed up the paintings, every last one, and carried them outside, dropping them in an undignified pile on a patch of bare earth a distance from the cottage. He doused them with the cognac, gritting his teeth as the liquid assaulted the paint, causing it to bleed, distorting Aziraphale’s face, twisting it, like Aziraphale’s body would eventually be, decaying inside his coffin.

When the bottle was just about empty, he rummaged through his pockets for his silver Zippo. He didn’t smoke, but he liked keeping a lighter on hand for emergencies. And why carry around a common plastic BIC when he could spend over a hundred dollars on something he only used once or twice a year? But that was the man Crowley was.

Frivolous.

Over-the-top.

Who in their right mind chooses to make a living as an artist anyway? He didn’t even want to be a painter initially. But when his trust fund matured and he gained control of it, he realized that he had more than enough money to live the life of a rock star and never work a day in his life. On a whim, he began to dally with watercolors and voila! He unlocked a secret talent.

But he should have done something respectable - gone to law school, or medical school. If he’d done either of those, Aziraphale might still be alive.

He’d give it all away, call a complete do over on his life, to get Aziraphale back.

He flipped the lighter open and an orange flame sprang to life. Crowley tossed the lighter into the pile. The flame barely touched the heap before the whole thing went up in a blaze. Crowley stood back and watched it burn, watched the past three months of his life go up in smoke. The paint melted, the canvas crackled, sparks of color went flying into the sky.

“There, Aziraphale,” Crowley grumbled, his throat raw from screaming. “It’s done. All of it. No more muse … no more you … no more paintings. I’ve buried it all with you. I’m _done_!”

Weak, tired, and sick, Crowley drank the dregs of Aziraphale’s cognac while fire devoured his paintings … and the love of his life.

It seemed too much work to trudge back to the cottage and climb into bed, so he lay down on the hard-packed earth next to the destroyed canvases. They maintained a slow burn, the air around him reeking of chemical smoke. Crowley hoped it would seep into his sinuses and suffocate his brain. Or maybe an errant cinder would jump onto his alcohol-soaked clothes and he would burn to death in his sleep; a sudden temperature drop freeze him to the ground where he lay. Either way, without Aziraphale, his bed wasn’t his bed, his home wasn’t a home, and Crowley wished more than anything that he could find the quickest and most efficient way to die.

Crowley had prayed that he would black out, surrender to an unconsciousness where time passed outside of memory, but he had no such luck. Locked inside sleep, he had the same dream over and over - Aziraphale falling from the ladder and cracking his head on the wall. And no matter what Crowley did, no matter how fast he ran, no matter if he didn’t go into the cottage to answer the phone, Aziraphale still died.

That was an absolute. It never changed.

Which meant that doctor, lawyer, or artist, Aziraphale would still die.

Before dawn, Crowley had no idea _when_ , he heard a rustle, followed by footfalls on the ground, and he wrestled through the fog in his brain to open his eyes. If he was about to be mauled by wild animals, he wanted to know. But what he saw was a man – a _beautiful_ man - approaching the charred pile, focused on it as if a sick, drunk, and urine-smelling Crowley wasn’t lying mere feet away. The man bent over the burnt canvases, a trembling hand pressed to his lips, and a gasp escaped his mouth.

Crowley had an overwhelming urge to reach out to the man, apologize for setting the paintings on fire, but why, he couldn’t explain. Crowley groaned, trying to form words with his sticky tongue. He rolled slightly, blinking to get a better look at his paintings’ solitary mourner, but when he opened his eyes, the man was gone, and Crowley fell asleep once again.

Crowley awoke after sunrise to the sound of laughter breaking through the haze of his fever-induced stupor. It was high-pitched, familiar. It sounded like heaven and home and the future Crowley had always dreamed of having, starting during those days when Aziraphale was completely clueless that Crowley had a crush on him. He could punch himself in the eye for the time he’d wasted not outright saying, “Aziraphale, I’m in love with you!”

Time he could use now.

Time he would never get back.

Back then, it took him longer than necessary to realize what he’d known from the beginning, from the first moment they met.

He wanted Aziraphale. Just Aziraphale.

Crowley peeled open his eyes and craned his head in search of the laughter, fixing his gaze on the cottage, and the patio he planned to tear out brick by brick by hand as soon as he was physically able. Somewhere in the midst of his pounding headache and the fog that refused to lift, he spotted piercing blue eyes – blue like the sky in summer – staring at him from behind a golden hibiscus. It was that exact spot Crowley had planned for his painting - the one he’d rushed home to start, of Aziraphale lounging on a chaise in front of the outdoor fireplace, the hibiscus behind him, its golden hue mimicking the highlights in his hair.

Crowley sat up too quickly to see who the eyes belonged to. His head swam, his stomach flipped, and before he knew it, he was on his hands and knees, vomiting over the ground. Crowley heaved until there was nothing left, eyes squeezed shut as his body wrung the past several hours’ worth of alcohol from him. As quickly as he could, he looked back at the cottage with watery eyes, but this time, he saw nothing. He dropped his head. It felt too heavy for his neck so he let it hang while he blinked what remained of his tears from his eyes. He caught a glimpse of his hands, filthy and paint-stained; the ruined cuffs of his suit reminding him that he still wore it. He pictured himself covered in dirt and vomit and knew that if Aziraphale could see him, he would be sorely disappointed.

Slowly, ever so slowly, with that thought lodged in his mind giving him an impetus to move, he crawled back to the cottage on his hands and knees. He felt lousy with fever, but his head began to clear. Small pebbles cut into the palms of his hands, but, unable to get to his feet, he continued to crawl, distracting himself by considering his options.

By the time he made it to the patio, his path seemed certain.

Crowley didn’t want to live, not without Aziraphale. His mind was made up.

He would settle his affairs.

He would finish his commissions, complete his obligations.

And when the cottage and his flat were put up on the market, and all was said and done, he would find the quickest, most foolproof way of being reunited with his husband again.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley spent five days fighting his fever, barely able to move, completely unable to keep anything down, and he was grateful for every excruciating second. It gave him something to think about besides the inevitable. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t get better, that the illness would do his job for him. He slept so deeply during that time, he thought he was dead, but instead of a peaceful eternity spent with Aziraphale, there was nothing – endless darkness until he woke again.

And that scared him most.

Because if there was nothing to go to after death, Aziraphale wasn’t only gone in the physical sense. It meant he no longer existed. And after their relatively short life together, Crowley would never see his beloved husband again.

On the sixth day, he had enough. His legs trembled and his stomach threatened to turn him inside out with every step he took, but he didn’t care.

It was time to get started.

Crowley refused to look at his phone. He wasn’t going to check his messages or his emails. He didn’t want to see pleas from their friends begging him to call them back, wondering how he was doing, asking how they could help. He got a taste of that at Aziraphale’s funeral, and each idea they had was the same. From short vacations to year-long trips around the world, they all wanted to take him away from his life, from his troubles … from everything that reminded him of his husband. Crowley knew that they meant well but he couldn’t. He had a connection to this cottage, not because it felt like a home, but because it felt like a mausoleum.

He couldn’t leave.

He did feel like a heel for not letting anyone know that he was alive … for the time being. Especially Tracy Shadwell. But if he texted Tracy or called her, Crowley would probably spill the beans, then everyone Crowley knew would be on his doorstep, ready to spend 24/7 sitting vigil by his bedside to make sure he didn’t down a bottle of pills.

It had occurred to Crowley that planning on killing himself was the worst way he could repay their friends, all of them, for their kindness, their love, and their never-ending support.

In that vein, what Crowley was doing could be considered unforgivable.

But he couldn’t concern himself with that, so he switched gears to something that aggravated the heck out of him, something he wouldn’t be sorry to leave behind.

Crowley knew he’d probably accrued over a dozen messages from village hall, calling with ideas for his painting, and he couldn’t care less. They had paid him in advance. They would get what he chose to paint for them and like it.

So what if they threatened to sue him?

He’d like to see them try.

This first painting, the one Aziraphale had chided him for putting off, was supposed to be a dramatic landscape view from a hilltop east of the county where they lived. He had planned to drive up there and map out the area, do some preliminary sketches, gauge his perspective. But those plans had also included a picnic lunch with Aziraphale, and then outdoor sex on their favorite blanket. Considering that that was no longer an option, _Screw it_ , he thought. _I’m gonna wing it._

It wouldn’t be a stretch. Crowley had this particular location set to memory. He and Aziraphale had driven all over it in Crowley’s Bentley. They knew the place by heart - where the roads led, the dips and curves that passed beneath the tall trees, where the creek crossed the old cow road, and the man-made trails that carved their lazy ways up and up.

He and Aziraphale had made love along most of those: in the back seat of his car parked hidden from view, even lying out on the grass under the sun on one or two more adventurous occasions.

One time in the rain.

Crowley sighed.

He was torturing himself now.

He needed it to hurt, or he might find himself content to live with the memories.

He chose a blank canvas from a pile of prepped ones on the floor and dropped it unceremoniously onto his easel.

This wasn’t going to be his best work. Far from it, as a matter of fact.

Why put one hundred percent into it? If you’ve seen one stinking landscape, you’ve seen them all. As long as it was a step up from something he’d find hanging in a Marriott, it’d be fine.

Crowley barely regarded the canvas before he started dropping paint on it, not giving a single fuck when the grass bled into the sky too far on one side, or how the hill looked more like a humpbacked snake than a majestically sweeping expanse of green. In his head, he could hear Aziraphale chuckling, high-pitched and giddy. Crowley grinned at the thought of Aziraphale standing beside him, teasing him over how lopsided his painting was, how it looked like someone taking hallucinogenic mushrooms had created it.

Crowley would shut him up by reaching out a stained hand and threatening his favorite coat.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale would screech. “You wouldn’t _dare_!”

“Try me,” Crowley would reply. The painting abandoned, Crowley would chase Aziraphale throughout the cottage, skidding past furniture and dodging drying canvases along the way. Aziraphale would head outside in the hopes of saving his precious books, stacked on every flat surface, from being knocked to the ground. Crowley would follow, purposefully keeping several paces behind.

Because Aziraphale running was adorable to watch!

But not far from the patio, Aziraphale would grow tired and slow up, an old service injury in his knee flaring and causing it to ache. He’d call out breathlessly, “All right, you wily serpent, you! You win! I give! Just … stain it somewhere it won’t show!”

But Crowley wouldn’t ruin Aziraphale’s favorite coat. Not for the world.

Somewhere along the route he’d have grabbed a rag to start cleaning himself up.

He’d still win, of course - overtake Aziraphale in the end.

But only because it was fun.

Which meant he deserved a prize.

He’d grab Aziraphale round the waist and drag his body against him, panting and flushed and simply perfect in every way. The coat would be safe, but bits of paint would end up stuck to Aziraphale’s hair by the time they finished making love, clinging where Crowley ran his fingers through it, streaking the pale strands shades of rainbow. Aziraphale would catch it in a reflection somewhere and frown, but then he’d laugh, his eyes lighting up, the love radiating from them too magnanimous to contain.

Crowley stopped daydreaming when he felt tears leave his eyes. He wiped his cheeks on the sleeve of his work shirt, shoving away memories of an afternoon spent a colorful mess.

Crowley looked at his painting, prepared to mock the disaster he had wrought as a way of leaving that memory behind. He pictured the travesty of having this worthless piece of shit hanging at village hall with his name emblazoned on a brass plaque underneath and felt wryly satisfied. But then he stopped. He stared. His pallet slipped from his hands and crashed to the floor, spattering his shoes and marking the wood.

Gone were the globs of paint and the humpback snake.

During his fantasizing, he had fixed the painting, changed it from monstrosity to memory (and a vivid one at that) of the hillside in spring: wildflowers dotting the grass, the sun a suggestion in the quality of the light and the shadows it threw. If he had been aiming for perfection, consciously attempting to convey beauty and the promise of new life, he could never have been able to come close to this.

But recognition of his own exceptional technique wasn’t what drew his eye.

It was the stretch of road in the distance.

On it, a Bentley drove along with two passengers inside. Crowley assumed he was the one behind the wheel, but the man in the driver’s seat was most definitely Aziraphale, turning to gaze over his shoulder, sublime smile on his face.

He looked so happy, so carefree.

He looked so _real_.

Crowley reached out a hand, fingertips hovering over the place where Aziraphale’s face looked up at him.

“What the---?”

_Honk, honk!_

Crowley jumped at the wail of a car horn coming from his driveway. But once surprise subsided, it swiftly turned to annoyance. The idea that someone who couldn’t get him by phone had driven out to his cottage _infuriated_ him!

Crowley considered not answering out of spite, but the urge to throw open his door and hurl insults at this intruder was too overwhelming to resist. He left the painting on its easel and stomped through the cottage to the front door.

_Honk, honk!_

“Yeah, yeah, I get it!” Crowley growled. “You’re _so_ important, you can’t even get out of your car and ring the damn bell!”

_Honk, honk!_

“Come on, Crowley! Hurry up! We’re going to be late!”

Crowley stopped cold in his tracks.

He stood paralyzed, gaping like a dying fish, choking on the million words rushing to come out but couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything - couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. For what seemed like forever, he couldn’t make himself do anything.

_Honk, honk!_

“Crowley! You promised me a picnic! I have the blanket!”

“A-Aziraphale?” Crowley ran for the door. “Aziraphale? Angel?” He couldn’t believe he was saying it, as if Aziraphale would actually be there. He wanted to slap himself for even thinking it was a possibility. But there he was, reaching for the knob, hoping against hope for what he would see once he opened it.

_Honk, ho_ _\--_ _-_

The sound cut off when the door flew open, and for a second, Crowley heard a laugh and saw a flash of blue eyes in the passenger seat of his Bentley.

A Bentley that had been kept covered since the funeral. 

He didn’t drive it home from the cemetery. Generous associates had it delivered when they heard it had been towed.

Crowley had been indifferent.

He didn’t think he’d actually drive it again.

Crowley stood in the doorway, his brain trying to reconcile what he was looking at.

A car.

It was just a car.

Nothing supernatural about it.

Crowley stepped outside and looked closer, examining it to find out why it had been honking on its own.

How a cover that fit snuggly had suddenly blown off.

Especially when there was no wind at present.

Crowley searched the driveway, the cottage, and the field beyond for some sign that someone, probably some stupid neighbor’s kid, had been pulling pranks. He covered the Bentley again, concentrating on it other than Aziraphale standing in the driveway honking the horn. 

Praying it would stop his hands from shaking.

Crowley took one final look around before retreating back to the cottage. He double-locked the door behind him, feeling ridiculous when he did. He returned to the painting, to the peaceful hillside and the happy couple in the car driving off into the sunset.

A revulsion filled him.

It was too much.

It was all too much.

He couldn’t let village hall have this memory, and he couldn’t put on public display something that would never be again.

He grabbed a bottle of paint thinner and doused the painting, watching the colors run, the couple in their little car smearing down the canvas and dripping over the edge. He watched until the picturesque hillside was reduced to nothing more than slop. Then he turned his back on his memories and went to bed.

***

“Crowley! Are you going to wash my back or not?”

“Hold up, angel! I’m … uh … doing something”

“What are you …? Oh, God! Tell me you’re not masturbating … or something equally vulgar!”

“Ha! What if I am?”

“You know, my love, I’m pretty sure you’re going to wear that thing out with over use!”

“Never!”

“Wait … are you … sketching me!? I’m in the shower!”

“I know. That’s why I’m sketching you.”

“But I’m naked! And I … wait a minute … it … it can’t be that big, can it?”

“Yup.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Are you …?”

“Aziraphale, I just spent half-an-hour with your cock in my mouth. I think I know how big it is.”

“Oh. Well, continue on, then.”

Crowley woke to the sound of his own laughter. He felt so light, so happy. He laughed so hard, tears leaked from his eyes. It shook his head, which caused him to wake. The more conscious of his surroundings he became, the more aware he was of two things: a grainy texture on his fingertips, and the muted sound of falling water.

It was raining again.

Crowley opened his eyes. He didn’t want to, but he was curious about the substance on his skin. Eyes adjusting to the low light, a sketch pad and charcoal pencil came into view, lying beside him on the bed.

He’d been drawing in his sleep.

Unusual, but it had happened before.

He lifted up on his elbows to get a better look at the drawing. It was crude, but amazingly, one of his best. He blinked away more sleep in order to identify the subject.

Realization shot like an arrow through his chest, but he wasn’t surprised.

He had drawn Aziraphale taking a shower, hands tangled in his hair, steam rising around his body, a sly smile on his lips at being watched.

Crowley loved that smile.

He could get lost in that smile.

He got lost in it now, so lost, he barely remembered the rain. But not rain, he realized as the memory dissolved and Crowley’s mind began to wake.

The shower.

And above the sound of falling water, he heard another, more magnificent sound.

Someone humming.

Crowley bolted from his bed. It had to be real this time! There couldn’t be any doubt! The shower was only a few feet from where he lay. He heard the water and the humming as clear as day. Crowley raced into the bathroom, air thick with steam, mirrors covered in condensation. His heart leapt as the sounds became louder.

“Crowley! Is that you? I …”

Crowley threw the curtains open, ready to embrace his wet husband with open arms.

Everything stopped.

No water.

Steam gone.

The mirrors dry.

He stood in shock, staring at an empty shower of cream-colored tile.

Crowley found himself caught between emotions - a desire to howl in anger along with the beginnings of a complete nervous breakdown.

He chose anger, feeling it best if he stayed sane a little longer.

He tore down the shower curtain. He stormed through the bathroom and pulled the mirrors off the walls, tossed bottles left and right. He punched the tile, cracking the porcelain and cutting his hand. The stab of pain pulled his focus. He stared at his bleeding hand, his chest burning as his heart pounded to break through his ribcage. He stood among the wreckage of the master bath and sighed.

So much rage.

So much sadness.

So much useless destruction.

None of it was going to bring Aziraphale back.

Crowley made his way to the kitchen, past the wasted pallet on the floor, past the painting still dripping acrylic, and headed for the sink. He turned on the cold water and stuck his hand underneath. Head bowed over the basin, he watched the blood from his cuts rinse away. His eyes drifted closed as the water soothed his stinging hand. He imagined Aziraphale draping an arm around him, fussing over him, kissing his temples, massaging his neck, telling him everything would be alright.

When his hand went from stinging to numb, Crowley fumbled for the faucet with eyes closed and shut the water off.

In the silence, Crowley heard a sigh that wasn’t his own.

He didn’t open his eyes.

He wanted Aziraphale back.

But he was done seeing ghosts.

He wanted it all to end.

“Paint it,” Crowley heard a quiet voice say. “Paint what you want.”

When Crowley opened his eyes, the blue eyes he knew had been there were gone.


	3. Chapter 3

The voice told him to paint what he wanted. Now, Crowley had to decide what that was.

The answer was simple.

Crowley wanted an ending.

That’s what he had thought right before he heard that silent command.

He wanted it all to end – the pain, the sadness, the hallucinations. But mostly, his life without Aziraphale.

So that was the secret then. He would paint an ending to it all – _his_ ending. How this all plays out starting with Aziraphale dying, these days of torture, and then … well, however Crowley thought to do himself in. He hadn’t given it any thought. It was a simple thing to say that he wanted to end his own life, but the logistics of it were another monster entirely. He’d spent the past few days feeling like his days were numbered, that his body would tear itself to pieces, but he was slowly getting better.

So the task fell on him.

Crowley returned to his easel. He tossed the ruined canvas aside and replaced it with a longer one, one with enough room to paint a multi-paneled work. He collected up his pallet, satisfied with the acrylics that were left and not giving a second thought to the puddle of paint he was standing in. He picked up a brush, not particularly concerned with whether it was camel hair or synthetic, medium tip or broad, and held it over the churning sea of tacky paint. He needed to choose his first color, one that would tie together the overall theme.

That should be relatively simple. He was painting a triptych of his own death. He would start with black or red.

But when he tried to dip the bristles into one of those two colors, he found the brush called somewhere else. He clenched his teeth and tried again with the same frustrating result – he’d reach for the red, but the brush was pulled to the blue.

“Fine,” he growled. “Fine, fine, fine, fucking _fine_!” He pulled up a huge dollop of blue and hurled it at the canvas, letting the paint land carelessly with an obscene _sploitch_ , the hulking mass grotesquely crawling south.

_“Well that’s mature_ _._ _” Aziraphale_ _watched_ _as Crowley put the finishing touches on his latest painting. “I don’t think the gallery is going to want that one.”_

_“I don’t care,” Crowley returned, not bothering to look at his husband standing by his side. “Paintings are about emotion, how they make you feel, and this one’s making me feel better.”_

_“A painting of us barbecuing the neighbor’s dog?” Aziraphale tilted his head to the side to take in the vivid imagery of a smug Crowley, dressed in a toque and a gingham apron that read ‘Kiss the Cook’ across the front, tongs raised triumphantly, and in their metal grip, the charred leg of Roy and Sylvia Harding’s Airedale Terrier, Mitzy._

_“You know, I_ _’_ _d think you would have more sympathy. The little jerk bit me_ _!_ _” Crowley griped, indicating his bandaged hand._

_“You bit him back!” Aziraphale chuckled. “I think that makes you even.”_

_“I don’t,” Crowley mumbled._

_Aziraphale inched closer to the painting, quietly appreciating the detail Crowley had put in – the grain in the wood of the red_ _-_ _washed picnic table; the springy hair on the carcass of the dead dog; even Aziraphale’s own ensemble – his favorite khaki pants and blue button down, his soft velvet vest_ _, his light grey coat._ _Crowley watched his husband’s eyes as they traveled over his work, lip pinched between his teeth, his brow furrowed in concentration. Aziraphale turned his head suddenly, blushing at getting caught admiring his husband’s handiwork on such a gruesome subject._

_Owing to love, knowledge, and familiarity, added with a dash of the fact that, after so many years of sharing the same heart and the same mind, they often thought alike, both men moved in at the exact same time for the kiss that seemed to linger in the air, waiting for them to experience it._

_Aziraphale gave a sidelong look at the painting and chuckled when he noticed how close his face was to a screaming and horrified Sylvia Harding, rending her clothes in an expression of her grief._

_“Okay, I’ve got to get away from this thing.” Aziraphale ducked his head and caught a glimpse of Crowley’s bandaged hand, a spot of red blossoming on the wrapping. “Oh,_ _my dear boy_ _!” He took Crowley’s hand in his and started to undo the gauze. “We have to re_ _-_ _wrap this so it doesn’t get infected.” Aziraphale tutted disapprovingly. “I wish you would let me take you to the hospital.”_

_“Why? When I’ve got you here to play my nurse?” Crowley put his pallet down and wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, dragging him close._ _Crowley wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Aziraphale pulled a face of mock horror._

_“Come on, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. “I think I need to undress so you can take my temperature.”_

_Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed. Then he kissed Crowley on the mouth, chuckling when his husband released him to undo the buttons of his shirt one-handed._

_“You know,” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s lips, grimacing at the confession he was about to make, “charred dog notwithstanding, it really is an excellent painting.”_

Crowley stepped back to view his work, but once again, what had started out as one thing had developed into another. He had painted several paintings within a painting – an image of himself standing and staring at a painting with Aziraphale by his side, staring at a painting of Crowley staring at the same painting with Aziraphale by his side, standing and staring at the same painting on and on for infinity. In the painting, Crowley wore the same clothes he did now, his untidy hair plastered flat on one side of his head, his pallet dangling from his hand with the paint swirled together in a blotchy mess. Crowley regarded the painting closely, his heart racing. If Aziraphale was standing a bit behind him and to the right in all these paintings, could that possibly mean …

Crowley jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

He turned, and a face closed in on his - cool lips pressing gently against his mouth. Crowley’s heart stopped when the face pulled away and he saw those blue eyes that he missed more with every passing day.

Aziraphale looked perfect, his ethereal beauty completely intact, the way Crowley remembered him. Aziraphale smiled at his husband, sorrow shifting his features.

“It really is an excellent painting,” he said, motioning to Crowley’s artwork with a nod of his chin.

Crowley didn’t want to look away, but he felt compelled to look back at the painting when Aziraphale mentioned it. Crowley had painted forever - the two of them together, stretching on into the future for an eternity. If he had to be honest with himself, that’s what he wanted.

He didn’t want to die.

He wanted his husband.

He turned back to Aziraphale, to ask him how he could make that happen, but Aziraphale was gone.

***

Crowley spent the following three days straight at his easel, the words _paint what you want_ repeating in his ears. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. All he did was paint. He wanted his life with his husband back, so he started from the beginning, when he and Aziraphale first met. Crowley painted Aziraphale standing by the pond in St. James Park, watching the ducks swim by, the sun shining behind him creating a halo effect around his soft, blonde hair. He’d looked like an angel in his long white coat, so much so Crowley had been afraid to talk to him. Crowley painted the way Aziraphale’s eyes held his the first time they spoke to one another, when Crowley remarked about the current state of affairs and it took Aziraphale a whole half-minute to realize someone had addressed him. He painted the blush that had risen to Aziraphale’s cheeks when Crowley made a particularly randy joke (in a failed attempt at flirting), and his admiration when he told Aziraphale what he did for a living.

He painted Aziraphale opening his bookshop, Crowley rushing through the door in the background with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates to celebrate. He painted Aziraphale walking the rows and stacks for hours, reading each novel as if they were a part of his own private library, which they might well have been since he consistently avoided selling anything.

He painted every lunch they shared at The Ritz on a wall-size canvas in multiple panels, changing their features as they aged, and on their respective ring fingers - faint at first, but becoming darker as time passed and they fell deeper in love - a single red thread that connected them.

During the course of those days, Crowley burned through his acrylics and had to call in a favor to another local artist to get more. While he waited for his shipment to arrive, he sketched. He went through sketch pad after sketch pad, finally resorting to paper from his printer, and after that, the newspapers stacked by the front door, never read but waiting to be recycled. He painted and sketched his and Aziraphale’s entire life together, and when he was done, when the final painting was set aside to dry, he waited for something to happen. A voice. A giggle. Another kiss.

 _Anything_.

Crowley climbed into bed, his muscles sore, eyes crossed from exhaustion. He fell asleep waiting and awoke the next morning to the sun warm on his face, his skin and clothes thoroughly stained, and his husband nowhere to be seen.

He felt like a fool. A grief stricken fool which made his actions understandable, but still a fool. He had made it all up in his mind, indulged in this fantasy for far too long, missed his deadlines and pushed aside his plans.

Well, not any more.

Crowley knew what he needed to do, and he had the adrenaline coursing through his body to do it. In his stash, he had a bottle of Xanax, a bottle of Halcion, and two bottles of vodka.

If he took them together, with any luck, it would be quick and painless.

He hurried into a living room littered floor to ceiling with pictures of Aziraphale, paintings of Aziraphale, charcoal sketches on every possible surface of Aziraphale, moving to the walls when he ran out of paper and his replacement paints and canvases had not yet arrived. There were so many images of Aziraphale throughout the room that Crowley almost missed him, wandering through the paintings, fingers hovering over, tracing outlines of his own face. Crowley came within inches of him on his way to the kitchen, stopping short at the intense look in his eyes.

Aziraphale still looked ethereal, but he also looked _real_.

“They’re _beautiful_ _!_ ” he gasped. “Every single one is just … _beautiful_ _!_ They may be your finest work!”

Crowley choked. This had to be a dream because the reality was too fantastic to believe. But Aziraphale’s eyes looked sad, and Crowley didn’t understand why.

“Are you really here?” Crowley asked. “Or are you going to haunt me forever?”

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?”

“I want you _here_ _!_ I need you, Aziraphale! I need you to come back to me!”

Aziraphale looked at the paintings, the drawings. “You painted my past, Crowley.” He reached out to caress an image of the two of them locked in an embrace, eyes closed as they kissed, caught up in their own little world as parents with children and park vendors raced by, eager to get out of the sudden downpour. Even Crowley had to admit it looked so real, he could almost see the people move, the children struggle to break free and splash in the puddles, Aziraphale’s lips against his.

It was their first kiss.

An _epic_ kiss.

“I need you to paint my future,” Aziraphale explained, beginning to fade. “Then, you can have me.”

Crowley shook his head, exhaustion turning desperation to anger. He had painted for three days straight to have Aziraphale. Now he was disappearing again because Crowley hadn’t done enough!?

“What future, Aziraphale!? You didn’t get a future! You didn’t get a future because of _me_! Because I fucked up!” Crowley was screaming even though he didn’t mean to. He was lost, lonely, felt like he was going bonkers. He was standing in the center of what could easily be labeled the creepiest memorial to his dead husband ever, arguing with a ghost. But none of that mattered because Crowley was tired of waiting, tired of being tested. He had a future planned for him and Aziraphale, and he was ready to get back to it.

“You’re here now! I don’t care if I never paint again! I don’t want to paint! All I want is you!”

Aziraphale shook his head, backing away, his body becoming more and more faint with every step. Crowley panicked. He rushed at Aziraphale, determination in his blood-shot eyes, ready to re-claim his life and his husband. But as Crowley reached Aziraphale, he dissolved into thin air. Crowley stood alone in the mid-morning light, listening as the rest of the world sprang to life outside – birds singing, insects chirping. Crowley hadn’t realized that while Aziraphale was there everything had gone quiet, like time had stopped. But now it marched on with absolutely no respect at all for Crowley’s frustration and pain.

“Fine,” Crowley scowled. “If that’s the way you’re going to be about it, we’ll play this game _your_ way!”

Crowley put a blank canvas on his easel and grabbed a pallet containing oils – a medium he wasn’t fond of, but he didn’t want to waste time rummaging through his acrylics for the colors he needed when this one was available.

Besides, Crowley considered oils a bitch to work with.

Seemed fitting.

Crowley didn’t take a moment to regard the canvas, search out the painting within. He knew what he wanted. He wanted _Aziraphale_ , naked in bed, panting with want, skin flushed, writhing against the sheets as he dreamed of Crowley joining him and relieving him of his agony.

Crowley attacked the canvas, and not just with his brush. He moved through the paint with his fingers as he defined the lines of Aziraphale’s arms. He cut through the oil with his pallet knife, giving depth and dimension to the comforter on the bed. He sliced and manipulated, the colors blending till what he had intended to be a simple portrait of his husband lying in bed became the culmination of all his passion, bleeding through his pores and coursing from his fingertips. Unlike his other paintings, which only took a matter of hours, this one he worked on all day. He didn’t notice when the sun began to sink into the horizon and the room went black.

He knew Aziraphale’s body so well he could paint it with his eyes closed.

And the image was _perfect_ – Aziraphale’s skin glowing against a frame of red satin sheets, plump lips parted, eyes searching, arm outstretched, pointing to where Crowley stood beside his masterpiece.

Crowley stared at the painting. And the more he stared, the more he could swear he saw Aziraphale breathing.

Crowley set his pallet down and ran a grungy hand through his hair, spreading paint along the strands. He was worn out, breathless, almost completely spent, but one word from Aziraphale would have sent him running to their bed.

If Aziraphale were there.

If Aziraphale was still alive.

He touched the frame of the canvas as a breeze spiraled through the room, carrying with it the most incredible sound.

“Crow-ley! When are you coming to bed?”

Crowley sucked in a breath and held it. He couldn’t let it go. A single noise, a single movement, and the voice might go away.

But he needed to know.

“A-Aziraphale?” Crowley stammered, sure that only the silence of the cottage would answer him.

“Crowley …” The voice - so light, so fair, so enticing and heartbreaking and miraculous - answered instead. “Please, stop painting and come to bed. You have all day to paint. We only have the night to spend together.”

Crowley backed away from the painting, gazing in reverence, expecting it to do something other-worldly … or maybe disappear. But it didn’t. The painting remained, and so did Aziraphale.

“Crowley! I am going to count to five and if you don’t …”

Crowley made it to him in three seconds flat.

That night, while making love to the man he thought he’d never see again, Crowley realized something so incredible, so indefinable, he felt no reason to try and explain it.

What good would it do?

He could spend the rest of his life with his husband, as long as he painted it that way.

***

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale whispered, clutching his husband’s arm. “They’re _gorgeous_! Every single one of them your best work, hands down!”

“Is that because you’re in every single one?” Crowley walked Aziraphale from painting to painting, stopping long enough in between so that his husband could examine the details at his leisure.

“I do lend a certain, how do you say, _sophistication_ to your art. I won’t lie.”

“Of course not.”

Aziraphale didn’t go out in public often – at least, not where anyone knew them. But being photographed by the paparazzi couldn’t be avoided. Crowley had shot from semi-famous to super stardom in a few short months, all thanks to his muse.

Crowley tried his hardest to make Aziraphale as inconspicuous as possible so he could accompany him to the gallery and see his artwork hung and lit properly. That was a magical moment, Aziraphale said - wandering through the paintings the night before the public got the chance to see them, knowing that he was one of the first people to lay eyes on them.

Crowley had dressed Aziraphale to go out in head to toe black by way of a simple suit, with leather gloves, top hat, and glasses to match. Aziraphale had never been a big fan of black, but it was a necessary evil.

Whoever he was to prying eyes, he had to appear in mourning. 

Speculation spread like wildfire when Crowley emerged from his cottage after months of isolation with a stack of new paintings in the back seat of his Bentley that he had found himself a new muse.

That he was no longer the grieving widower.

At first, the art community criticized him harshly, but they quickly forgave him, falling completely in love with his latest work – an homage to the brief but brilliant life of his husband, bookshop owner Aziraphale Fell.

Only their closest friends knew the truth. 

And they didn’t care, as long as they got Aziraphale back.

Tracy said she wouldn’t care if Aziraphale were the devil himself. She was ecstatic to have her best friend, in whatever form, back on earth.

“How many are there?” Aziraphale gazed down the line of paintings, trying to take them all in at once, including the one that made this trip possible – a painting of him and Crowley strolling through the gallery, dressed the way they were now, admiring Crowley’s art. It was the painting that greeted visitors on their way in, and was titled (appropriately) “An Afternoon at the Gallery with Aziraphale”.

“Right now … about one-hundred and fifty.”

Aziraphale snapped his head left to look into his husband’s proud face, jaw dropped in disbelief.

“One-hundred and fifty? That’s almost …” He did some calculations in his head, coming up with an answer that boggled his mind “… five months we get to spend together!”

“Try two-and-a-half years,” Crowley corrected, preening with delight at the wide-eyed stare his revelation earned him.

“Two and a half …?” Aziraphale gasped. “But … but _how_?”

“ _This_ is how.” Crowley escorted Aziraphale through a set of double doors to a larger room, the walls re-painted white to better display the art. The room held easily eighteen wall-sized murals, each with a multitude of different panels depicting Crowley and Aziraphale vacationing in Paris, sitting in a gondola in Venice, exploring the Grand Canyon, or just ‘living’ – washing dishes, walking a dog, shopping at the supermarket … and quite a few of them making love.

Aziraphale stayed quiet for a long time, staring at the next few years of his life as Crowley had planned them. 

Crowley felt an unnerving weight settle in his chest. For a moment, he feared this wasn’t what Aziraphale wanted. He didn’t want to lose Aziraphale. Not again. But what had he forgotten? What was missing? 

“Aziraphale? For the love of God, Aziraphale! Tell me …”

“I love them!” Aziraphale threw himself into Crowley’s arms. “I love it! All of it! Our life together! It’s _wonderful_!”

“You really like it?” Crowley asked, overwhelmed by Aziraphale in his arms.

“I do!”

Crowley wasn’t done holding him, but Aziraphale pulled away, eagerly leading his husband farther in the room to examine those paintings as well. “But now we have to start planning ahead. I expect you to make me age gracefully - no premature balding or pot belly. I mean, my normal belly is fine. Just nothing too extreme. Father Christmas belly. That’s fine.”

“Good to know.”

“And my bookshop. I have every intention of going back.”

Crowley’s eyes grew wide. “But … but _how_?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Aziraphale said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m sure Tracy can help me figure something out.”

Crowley rolled his eyes but listened carefully, setting Aziraphale’s notes to memory. “I’m sure she can.” He placed a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head. “What would you like to do now? The show doesn’t open till tomorrow. We have the whole day to ourselves.”

“The whole day, hmm?” Aziraphale’s lips curled. He walked straight to a painting done in muted, neutral shades of the two of them in bed, Crowley hovering over Aziraphale’s body, looking down at his husband with lust blown eyes, occasional highlights of black and red suggesting exactly what moment of desire it portrayed. “This one.” Aziraphale’s voice turned silky, a wash of seduction that made Crowley burn to take him right there. “I want this one.”

“You just want to snog,” Crowley teased, offering Aziraphale an arm.

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled as he pulled Crowley towards the door. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he said, biting his lower lip and giving Crowley inspiration for his next painting.


End file.
